


I Can Barely Sleep in This Casino (The Unabridged "Mind the Gaps While We Fill Them in for You" Version)

by astrologicallyDubious (ruination_fangs), light_rises, MadMegatax, telluricThanatologist, Threeley



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Animated Gif (at the beginning), Animation, Canon Character Death (mention), Card Games, F/M, Gambling, Gen, Illustrated, Partial Mind Control, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-01
Updated: 2013-11-01
Packaged: 2017-12-31 03:15:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1026601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruination_fangs/pseuds/astrologicallyDubious, https://archiveofourown.org/users/light_rises/pseuds/light_rises, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadMegatax/pseuds/MadMegatax, https://archiveofourown.org/users/telluricThanatologist/pseuds/telluricThanatologist, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Threeley/pseuds/Threeley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The stakes are simple: the loser discloses a secret."</p><p>You narrow your eyes at his infuriatingly blank face. "So if I beat you, you have to tell me something you've been withholding?"</p><p>"Essentially."</p><p>You start approaching him. "And if you beat me?"</p><p>"Nothing. What could you possibly tell me that I don't already know?"</p><p>You're standing at the table now, arms crossed. "Then you already know the outcome of this game."</p><p>"Don't you? In fact, as an incentive, I will allow you a handicap."</p><p>(<i>the fully-expanded version of Team John<3Rose's MR1 entry for HSO 2012</i>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Can Barely Sleep in This Casino (The Unabridged "Mind the Gaps While We Fill Them in for You" Version)

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time, Team Hammer Horror put together an entry for Round 1 of the Homestuck Shipping Olympics 2012. Alas, that entry ran very - very - long, so it had to be trimmed down considerably (though we are still very proud of the [final result](http://hso2012-r1.dreamwidth.org/25246.html)).
> 
> Nevertheless, we vowed to one day show ICBSiTC's story in full - and this is that story! It's everything we wanted to show you all originally, plus some revisions, expanded material, and a brand new slew of illustrations(!!)
> 
> This version, too, we present to you proudly. Please enjoy!! :]

GG: SHHHHHHHHHH!

GG: please dont rose, i know you are angry but you arent thinking straight  
TT: But I am.  
TT: I'm fully aware I'll probably die and fail. Scratch happens, we start fresh. No recollection, no problem.  
GG: nooo :(

TT: ... Sigh.  
TT: Lest I lead you to think I can't see past the nose of my ire:  
TT: I know how this must sound from the outside.  
TT: And,  
GG: AUGH rose!!!  
TT: ?  
GG: you say "outside" almost like you are the only one affected by this!  
GG: and im not sure how to feel about that  
TT: Probably no less than I am with regards to what you want from me.  
TT: Other than the obvious. And I'm afraid rather moot, in the long run.  
GG: thats just it though!  
GG: maybe you are rose, but im not ready to accept that things are so bad off that you leaving to fight jack and losing and being ok with it because we will cease to exist anyway is the best option we have  
TT: This sounds familiar.  
GG: on top of that!! >:O  
GG: i dont think we are all on the same page  
GG: i mean, theres a white text guy telling you all sorts of things now and feeling like he can butt into conversations apparently??  
GG: and all this stuff about the scratch i am hearing for the first time...  
TT: And mine too. We're more or less concurrent on that point.  
GG: yes but thats just US two!  
GG: thaaat is unless dave managed to pick it up from one of his *future* future selves since the last time we talked about it i guess :o  
GG: but john.....  
TT: Has been busy doing what he needs to do.  
TT: Bringing details attendant to the Scratch to his attention hasn't exactly been relevant to that.  
GG: i guess but  
GG: aaarggh!!!  
GG: bleh this is sounding really accusatory isnt it?  
TT: I don't know.  
TT: Like I said, the original plan might have been a terrible one.  
GG: ok, what i am saying is...  
GG: well its more asking you, a request i guess, because its true i cant make you not go through with it  
GG: but!! i would just rather you hold off on trying to take on jack until the guys know what is going on too  
GG: please rose?  
TT: Mmmm.  
GG: :(  
GG: oh.....  
GG: its likely john doesnt know about his dad huh?  
GG: at least, the last thing i want to do is assume things again  
GG: ughhh you were very nice about it but that was terrible of me  
TT: Jade,  
TT: Rest assured you did about as well as any thinking, sufficiently empathetic being could to be considerate of my feelings and give someone you thought to be knowingly bereaved the space she needed.  
TT: Speaking of.  
GG: :C  
GG: well, can you at least promise me you wont go off to find jack just yet?  
TT: I can.  
GG: !!!  
TT: John's been trying to get a hold of me for about as long as you.  
TT: I think I've left him hanging long enough.  
TT: In  
TT: More ways than one.  
GG: :?  
TT: Sorry.  
TT: That's my coy way of saying you shouldn't have to be the bearer of bad news again.  
TT: I'll tell John. Turn him to the same grim page as us, for better or for worse.  
GG: ohhhh gotcha  
GG: ... will you get back in touch?  
TT: I'll pencil it in.  
GG: heheh good  
GG: well  
GG: i guess i should let you go and  
TT: Yeah.  
TT: We'll talk later.  
GG: D:  
GG: good luck <33333333

gardenGnostic [GG] ceased pestering tentacleTherapist [TT]

Jade's face is the last thing to wink out of view and you set the crystal ball aside, but the image keeps a grim vigil in your head (their hands reached out for each other, limbs bent in ways they shouldn't, wine and blood twisting together and something twists inside you, too).

You skim the log again, mentally scurry that good luck <33333333 away like a charm you're not sure you believe in anymore, keep scrolling up...

You highlight the "Hee hee" and exhale.

TT: ...  
TT: Ok.  
TT: If I actually cared, color me shocked your invasiveness didn't extend past an assertion of your seat in the peanut gallery.  
TT: Congratulations?  
TT: Hmm.  
TT: Then I'll just suppose we're done here too.  
TT: Here's to hoping - in this, your existential twilight - you come to cherish this little display of human pathos much like someone nursing a hangnail, in all its vanishingly small yet persistent vexation.  
TT: ... What the hell am I still doing here. 

tentacleTherapist [TT] is now an idle chum!

You stay idle for a good five minutes. It becomes a prime window of self-appointed opportunity to comb through your options. Like a normal person, like you were doing before, sort of. The cue ball has suddenly become a poor advisor and it's all you can do to keep turning it over until it’s warm and fingerprint-glazed in your hand instead of chucking it outright. At least this would give John some peace of mind, you guess.

Speaking of.

OPTION 1: Pinpoint John's location on the Battlefield and head there to tell him yourself.

OPTION 2: Have him come to you.

OPTION 3: Pester now; vault over that hurdle; PROCEED.

You go with 3. It's not like you two haven't hashed out heavy stuff over Pesterchum before (or tried to, but he -- nevermind). Even if this time you're eyeing John's chumhandle like a flashing text marquee of convivial obligation that's gone and morphed into a looming _thing_ of wow that was certainly a thing you just agreed to do for Jade wasn't it.

Some recess of your head is eyeing you dourly for being so. _So_. You decide you don't like it ~~and pretend you couldn't possibly understand where it's coming from.~~

You return the cue ball to your viceroy and PROCEED.

tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering ectoBiologist [EB]  
TT: Hi.  
EB: whoa there you are!  
TT: Sorry for the delay. I've been busy and preoccupations therein have led me to believe a change of plans is in order.  
EB: wait, right now?  
TT: Ideally.  
EB: oh man.  
EB: uh...  
TT: Anyway, let's tackle the  
TT: Practical aspects first:

_~~fucking hell why is this so hard~~ _

TT: Have you managed to retrieve The Tumor yet?  
EB: thaaat's actually what i've been trying to message you about!  
TT: Oh?  
EB: yeah, see...  
EB: i decided to use my windy powers to make what was probably a hurricane? and use it to drill to the center of the battlefield.  
EB: oh!!! you know about that right? the windy powers and god tiering and such.  
TT: Of course. I may have been busy but I've kept my eyes peeled.  
TT: Go on.  
EB: well, i got to the center and there was no tumor.  
TT: What.  
EB: uughh, wait, hold on,  
EB: Tumor.  
EB: there! correctly capped and blackified for pompous game purposes.  
TT: ...  
TT: John.  
TT: John, that is precisely the least relevant aspect of what's wrong here.  
EB: ......... yeah.  
TT: Hold please.  
EB: uh.

tentacleTherapist [TT] is now an idle chum!

What.

In the actual.

_Fuck._

Okay. Okay. It's fine. Actually it's the opposite of fine but the point right now is to move forward and like hell if you won't. Continue. This conversation.

Right. He's waiting.

PROCEED again.

TT: What.  
TT: In the actual.  
TT: FUCK.  
EB: O_O  
EB: oh wow.  
TT: This can't be right.  
TT: But there's no way you could have missed it once you got there.  
TT: Are you absolutely certain you drilled to the center?  
EB: definitely! it was the most cavernous part in there, easy.  
EB: believe me i checked.  
TT: God.  
EB: um.  
EB: sorry?  
TT: No, it's  
TT: At the moment I am attempting very, very hard not to utter a mantra of "inconceivable"s in a headlong slide towards caricaturized Sicilian villainy.  
TT: It's not working.  
EB: heh. well maybe that's because you keep saying that word,  
TT: John.  
TT: Ok, that was my fault.  
TT: I'd rather not do this right now if you don't mind.  
EB: oh uh  
EB: ok?  
TT: Thank you.  
EB: ... well.  
EB: since you brought it up, i was wondering if it WAS my fault?  
EB: like. maybe if i disturb the battlefield's center the wrong way it is meant to hide the treasure?  
EB: i was kind of winging it when i did that drill thing, really.  
EB: ... rose?  
EB: ???  
TT: Alright.  
TT: I need you to come here.  
TT: Message me when you arrive at Lohac and I'll give you a rendezvous point. We'll confer more there.  
TT: Understood?  
EB: i... guess?  
TT: Safe travels, then.  
EB: wait rose, what  
EB: dammit  
EB: *what's going on now??  
tentacleTherapist [TT] ceased pestering ectoBiologist [EB]  
EB: AAAGGGH.

You feel a little worse about doing that to him this time, though you suppose it's a side effect of what you're about to do. Or enact, rather.

Still, it's hard to feel guilty with a potential paradigm shift breathing down your neck. And you're already side-eyeing the way plans are shaping up in your head -- still nascent and knit as much by the crease to your brow as the machinations for the machinations you're hurriedly casting on -- because they reek of defense. Of passivity.

On the other hand, there's having one nigh-omnipotent foe, then there's having two. Haste and desperation, meet Operation: Get Everyone Else the Proverbial Fuck Out of Dodge.

You just hope your friends won't hate you once you're through.

tentacleTherapist [TT] started pestering turntechGodhead [TG]

TT: If you're still jonesing for a casino-flavored escapade, I would be happy to assist.  
TG: hell yes i am totally down for preserving this time loop  
TG: if by assist you mean storm in with needles blazing which lets face it is exactly what you mean  
TG: using dark magic to summon the choicest of cards like bam royal house every goddamn time  
TT: I believe the term is "royal flush".  
TG: with your ill gotten royal houses you set yourself up some kind of suburban kingdom  
TG: sburban kingdom  
TT: At the center of the neighborhood, there is a gigantic bomb. The moment it's set to explode, meteors destroy the entire country. Everybody perishes.  
TG: no fuck that  
TG: everybody lives rose  
TG: so anyways youre actually going to do this now  
TT: If you have  
TT: The time.  
TG: that is some really funny shit these casino douches wont even know what hit em  
TG: you will be the brawn i will be the brains naturally  
TT: You can believe whatever you wish to believe, Strider.

\--

The casino is nicer than expected. Instead of more rivets and fire-hot girders it's all that forcibly trussed into high ceilings and spindles arching into sharp corners. There's even a lava waterfall running down the obsidian wall in front of you. Pretty impressive, you think as you fire off some replies to John (It's three grandiose frameworks southeast of the Beat Mesa. oh. sooo you might say this casino place is just off the beaten........ Mesa? mesoh god dammit. Score one for the would-be dark enchantress who can still tell jokes! ... For the record, I didn't forget that you're sorry. ok.) and pull out your knitting.

Dave arrives a few minutes later, sees you, then proceeds to inaugurate the first time you're meeting face-to-face outside of each other's dreams by ... snorting.

"Fucking typical." He recaptchalogues the Unreal Air he rode in on with a haste that makes you do anything _but_ suppress a smirk. "Talking with giant monsters from paradox space, pulling together a cult, dark magic, and knitting. How many yarn balls do you even have there? You could knit a scarf around the planet and still have some left to make some terrible sweaters."

You shrug and say nothing. Take in the sleeplessness fanning out in smudges beneath the chintz of his aviators -- his slouch, his presumptuousness, his fierce and ferociously transparent posturing -- the well of fondness this inspires and ~~hold it close~~ set it aside for later.

“All right then, so are we doing this?” He turns his back for a moment and that's all you need.

 _For later_. “Well. I am, at the very least.”

You can smile when he starts to turn because there are fifty different shades of betrayal and _don’t do it, dooooon’t yooooouuuu do it_ all over his visage. And _of course it’s too late for that Dave_ , because .

Dave's face, meet ball of yarn. Oh, you are already acquainted? Fancy that.

  


\--

You almost expected it to be cooler when you stepped inside, but if anything, the temperature has risen. You chalk it up to the decorative lavafalls and pools because god if these things aren't everywhere now.

Even more, you're thrown by the dearth of life in here. There's neither a consort nor imp in sight, and lavaflows aside, noise and movement are confined to the machines dotting the room. Everything else is swathed in purple, familiar and resonant and piquing your brain like a limb that's waking up from sleep.

You welcome these layers of curiouser and curiouser because they make for good ~~excus~~ _excuses_. Because really, that's what they are, who are you kidding anymore? They're excuses to plumb the mysteries of unmanned (unconsorted?) roulette tables so you can put the rest of your thoughts towards what you're going to do about Jade instead of remembering that you're also waiting, waiting _do you even want him to get here because if you weren't ready to deal with this **before** you realized you were going to have to --_

I was under the impression you did not consider this conducive to reaching your goal.

... Ah. Wrong him; right problem. (You're willing to bet, at least.)

You think: Maybe I can nip this in the bud here and now. Probably not. But it's another thing you're willing to bet anyway.

TT: Forgive me for not being in the mood to indulge our usual tit for tat. As well as for diving headlong into the point:  
TT: You lied to me about The Tumor.  
Sigh.  
Because it apparently bears reiteration:  
I never lie.  
TT: Then why couldn’t John locate it?  
There you go again. Acting the storyteller, filling in perceived gaps with flights of fantastic supposition.  
I told you only the circumstances in which you should find The Tumor, nothing more.  
TT: Then what about the Green Sun? What could you possibly gain from misleading me about something meant to forward your plans?  
You are certainly living up to your role, Seer. Though the questions you ask leave something to be desired. Regrettably. And again.  
TT: Another hopelessly leveraged round of 20 Questions, then?  
TT: I'll pass.  
Oh no.  
I am more interested in the implications of insisting my words are offensive only to you.  
A thought: Don't you believe this perfectly reflects the self-serving attitude you've displayed throughout the game?

What?

TT: What?  
TT: Everything I did was to help secure the safety of my friends.  
And that is how you were so eager to initiate a reality-rending game mechanism - a fact clear even through your muddied understanding of the Scratch's nature, I might add. Or how you persisted even with the knowledge that said mechanism would scrub your co-players from existence.  
Not to mention why you led a friend to a bomb without informing him of the repercussions of his actions.  
TT: ...  
Meanwhile, you are under the impression that your secrecy has increased the odds of your friends' survival.  
Someone with unlimited knowledge and the skills to obscure information at will would find this amusing.  
TT: Then how about this act of will - me choosing not to talk to you from this point on.  
TT: Because it's obvious you can't engage others without attempting to demoralize them.  
I see.  
In that case, might I suggest a more effective method of torment than a ponderous timesink of one-sided conversation?  
To wit: 

"Would you like to play a game?"

You refrain from startling overmuch as you hear his voice (it's too oily to be anyone's but his) and turn off your Hubtopband. Behind one of the larger card tables and towards the middle of the casino floor, you spot a small figure with a huge cue ball for a head. He's a bone-white glint amidst the casino's crackling orange and violets and blinking-winking technicolor blitz.

He continues, "The stakes are simple: the loser discloses a secret."

You narrow your eyes at his infuriatingly blank face. "So if I beat you, you have to tell me something you've been withholding?"

"Essentially."

You start approaching him. "And if you beat me?"

"Nothing. What could you possibly tell me that I don't already know?"

You're standing at the table now, arms crossed. "Then you already know the outcome of this game."

"Don't you? In fact, as an incentive, I will allow you a handicap."

Even in person this feels like old hat, shocker of shockers. Words upon words which scream some hidden meaning you're certain you should understand, and it's driving you mad.

What reason could he have to suggest a game in which the odds are in your favor, anyway? You suspect his "answers," if you win, will be his trademark variety of empty words at threefold. You won't even have a chance to ask whatever he might deem the right questions. And yet.

What if this is your only shot at finding out?

You breathe out, arms falling to either side. "All right. I accept."

"Excellent." He draws his hands from behind his back to reveal a deck of cards. You eye it warily. "Come now, I assure you I play fair. And after all, what have you got to lose?"

"Rose!"

Your surroundings shift subtly: different advertisements on the screens, lighter colors, less violet violets ... more blues and greens. You turn to see John running up to you, godhood trailing with a buoyant flicker as he skids beside slot machines and grasps the rims of game tables for purchase to make sure his turns around them hold fast.

It dimly occurs to you that you're meeting this other boy for the first time too: this motley conglomerate of stubborn baby-fat paunch and spindly limbs and bright bright eyes and klutz and crass and veritable best friend. Less dim is the occurrence that your other guest's head is now canted right towards John, and the chill sent through your spine just about hitches your breath while John catches his.

You suddenly understand the knowing tone in your informant's voice.

"Okay," John says, now at your side. "So. Let me just state this as a fact for the record. Like. I have never even been in a casino and I think we can agree this is the shittiest one ever. Seriously, leave it to Dave's planet to make something that's supposed to be cool super lame. Aren't there supposed to be consorts or monsters or something?"

"I was wondering that myself," you tell him, all caution. Change of Plans Part Trois: The Reckoning ( _jesus dick this is not the time for those kinds of jokes lalonde_ ). Maybe you can steer John away before --

"Excellent," your informant cuts in. There are now teeth to his knowing tone and shit. Shit, shit. "Your friend can join the game as well."

 _Shit_.

"Wait, that's what this is all about, Rose? We're playing some sort of sidequest minigame thing?" John leans toward you to add quietly, "Who is this guy anyway?"

"One of my informants," is what you leave it at. His omnipotence aside, you don't feel like divulging all your thoughts in front of him. Really, you need John to leave, this is dangerous and --

"Oh! So we're collecting information, or ... " John freezes, blinking. "Whoa, wait. Waaait." His eyes narrow. "Did this guy tell you about The Tumor? Are you trying to find out if it was bum info?"

"I'd deem that a fair assessment of the situation, yes," says your informant, and may whatever Powers That Be -- John?? -- strike you down this instant if you ever yearned for the capacity to shut this man or whatever he is up more than you do now.

"Well, then yeah! Of course I'll pla -- "

" _John_."

He winces like your voice has him pinched in a vice grip, so you do too. You rein it in as you say, "It's fine. I have this."

"But it'll be two against one this way! We can gang up on him or something." He frowns just the slightest. "Isn't ... this why you wanted me here in the first place, anyway? To help?"

Your informant places the deck on the table before you can answer, and oh if that sound isn't louder than it has any right to be. "He has already accepted, Seer. Please, take a seat."

A long, long moment passes and then you do so, because all the retorts you can think of curl like ash in your mouth. While John ... he pssts as he takes his own seat and offers what you think is meant to be a furtive wink when he catches your eye. He throws in a thumbs up for good measure.

You snort, blow your bangs from your eyes, find yourself not entirely humorless (company that gives misery a brazen Cocker Spaniel tilt makes that hard, you suppose), then raise an eyebrow as you receive only two cards. "Blackjack?" you ask.

"Of course."

"Hey, I thought this guy was playing?" You follow John's gaze to the conspicuous lack of cards in front of your dealer, remainder of the deck aside.

"You may call 'this guy' Scratch. And while we're on the subject: this, Seer, is your handicap." Your informant -- Scratch -- tents his fingers and leans forward. "I shall not participate in this game."

And there goes your humor. Your fingernails pinch into your palms. "Handica -- you said you would play."

"An understandable conclusion to draw, if one weren't aware I am not a gambling man. This will be a game in which only the Seer and the Heir shall face off." He pauses. "Which isn't to say I won't enable _your_ proclivities. In fact, I believe a change in wardrobe would be ... fitting."

He snaps his fingers and wow, aren't you dapper.

Distraction aside, Scratch’s deception -- or, excuse you, _prank_ \-- doesn’t even begin to sit well. Still, he deals the cards, you're both gussied up, John just shrugs, and you have little choice but to play.

For the first four hands you both deliberately bust, leaving no winner (and no loser, natch). If Scratch finds this annoying he says nothing about it except, "You think yourselves clever, don't you?" And yes, you do.

On the next hand, John pauses at his turn to lay his cards flat against the tabletop. They're sitting pretty at twenty; neither of you have bothered to hide what you've been dealt.

He taps a finger to the left of his jack's head a few times before saying, "I stand."

You gape, look down, consider your precarious hand of sixteen with a mental sort of fumble. Ask for a hit.

 _Bust_.

You're staring at John again and he looks at you right back, both triumphant and surprised. You finally find your tongue. "Why did you do that, John?"

He shrugs as Scratch gathers the cards. "We've been busting for a while and nothing is happening! If we want to end this stupid game we might as well shake things up. So, um ... tell me a secret! It doesn't have to be big."

You frown, but go ahead and mull it over.

One thing comes to mind straight off, and it's -- well. You're not surprised by the What so much as the feeling attending it now. It's oddly tangible, like the thought got snarled on the insides of the your ears and it's tugging free, but ... you can't tell John yet. Not now, and not just because you've been dreading it. You don't want to distract him, and you fear his reaction might distract you as well.

So you try to think of something else. The tugging turns into a pressure, a buildup of atmosphere from the inside out that feels like it's grown past the general vicinity of your head by several inches. You attempt to shake it off.

Literally, because John seems to catch that and starts chattering encouragement. "No, really, Rose, it can be anything! I mean ... maybe after this it'll be over and we can leave and change plans some other way, because I dunno, it seems kind of dumb to think a giant bomb that was supposed to be in the middle of Skaia is the only way to -- "

"What?" You go stock still. "How did you find out The Tumor was a bomb?" you say before you can stop yourself.

"Vriska told me." He tilts his head, lips going pursed before: "Aaand I guess you had your reasons for not saying so, because 'treasure' sounds more fun? Whatever other dumbass name Sburb attaches to bombs, but!" He scratches the back of his ear. "I'm afraid that doesn't really count as a secret anymore, so ... "

"Right," you say, both because he is and because it's all you can do through the mental fog. You're still steeling yourself.

The look John gives you now is oddly intent, or at least more so (differently so) than you're used to from video chats. But you think you're ready and you start to speak.

Here are the words you have lined up:

"It may or may not surprise you to hear that I possess a hidden collection of wizard lore under my bed. For obvious reasons I'm leaning towards 'not.'"

And when you try to talk ( _pressure peaking welling over your ears set to buildbuildbuild_

 **pop** ):

"Jack killed our parents."

You fail to bite back a gasp. John's eyes prick wide and his shoulders fall, like the sound of your breath cut his strings. ~~You know better though~~. A pall falls on his face along with the silence between you.

The stare you fix to his feels stretched with mortification. You wait and wait and...

John utters the tiniest "oh" you have ever ever heard and Scratch bustles through with the next hand, all prim business.

So it's not over after all. Great.

"Hit," you say, distantly. You don’t even look at Scratch as he places a card in front of you. For a smatter of heartbeats your world is you and John, who has taken to pointedly staring at his own cards. What could he be thinking right now? Is he angry? Resentful?

Perhaps he's just disappointed in you.

You try, "John, I ... "

"You still have to look at your card." His gaze shifts to the slot machines lining the sides of the room.

You feel your face tighten, just incrementally. "Oh, I apologize for wasting your time then." You're unable to keep the iciness from your words. Well. If he insists on making this ordeal unpleasant, what can you do but oblige?

You finally look at the newest card and clench your jaw as you realize you just bust.

"Fair is fair, John." You flip over your cards. "I suppose you'll want to be rewarded with another highly-coveted Lalonde secret."

John doesn't seem enthralled with the idea. "Sure, go ahead."

You don't even try to fight it this time, and your head thanks you for it. "I wasn't responding to your messages because I was conversing with our charming dealer." You successfully resist the urge to grimace at yourself.

He leans across the table and yes, _now_ there's something. Anger. "Wait, what? You could have been telling me what was going on, but ... _what_?!"

"Sorry, John, but I believe the rules are that you get only one secret for your win."

John throws up his hands and leans back again. If you can call it an upside, at least you're positive he feels _something_ about this situation now.

As Scratch collects the cards, he chuckles. "I'm flattered that you have finally acknowledged my charm."

" ... Yes. That is certainly a thing that seems to have happened." Okay, you take that back. It's a pretty shitty upside. You just wish this whole game would end. You want to actually talk to John, if he even wants to talk to you now, and the presence of a creepy sentient cue ball and his willbending card games aren't helping.

Next round you call for a hit again, and you swear Scratch would be smirking if he had a face. You can't help but shudder slightly.

For once you don't bust, and you're left to wonder if this could be a change in the tides. John calls for a hit as well, then ... scowls.

"Bust." He slides the cards towards Scratch and folds his arms across his chest.

You await your boon. The way you swing your feet and pull at your dress under the table might be considered anxious, but it's just a little sound, a little fury. You've already resigned yourself to the fact that John has nothing positive to say about you at the moment.

If he fights it like you did, it's over in the space between pinching his eyes shut and the ragged rush of breath through, then out his lips. (In fairness, he's always been better at blithely following imperatives than you.)

"You know, Rose ... " He still refuses to look at you. "I hate how you act so high and mighty, like you know what's best for everyone. Because you don't."

You find it hard to focus your gaze on him. "Well. I'm glad you’re finally being honest." Or on anything for that matter.

You scold away the lump in your throat. Really. Really now. What did you expect? Of course he can't _actually_ stand you. He's finally opening up in ways that aren't just the most convenient for you both. People, you recall, make accommodations for civility all the time; warm words and sunshine veneers ~~and friendship~~ are no less subject to that, however Jade may insist otherwise.

And anyway, John was the one to set Honesty Hour -- and now, its tenor -- into motion. How else to respond other than resolving to follow his lead, outcome be damned?

(Problem is, you don't feel any better for it.)

The next rounds pass in a blur as you take turns losing.

"Sometimes I feign being offline when the others are but you aren't, because I don't know if you'll have the wherewithal to listen when I need a lent ear on certain matters."

"Hey, same here! Except I'm afraid you're going to try, like, taking a spork to the inside of my head and scrape around again without me being able to ask _you_ about stuff and some days I just can't hack that."

"Well, if that isn't illuminating. Because I've never appreciated how you’re always so quick to divert attention from your negative emotions. One might assume you're trying to hide something."

"Well, 'one might assume' your fancy language is there to distract people from what you're thinking! You _never_ say what's really on your mind, however plain as day it might already be!"

"I intended to knock you out with a ball of yarn after you arrived."

" ... Uh. Didn't you actually try to do that?" John looks at you, aggravation giving way to confusion.

"No." Something meek yet insistent starts pawing at the back of your mind and -- "What makes you say that?"

"Nothing, I guess." John shoves his cards towards Scratch and gazes absentmindedly at the slot machines, unsettled. You push your own discomfort aside.

You win the next hand, the pattern maintained. But this time John isn't so quick with a biting remark. “Did you know I went to a casino once?" he says. "A real one, I mean, from when before the Earth was smashed by meteors."

You frown at him. "But I thought you said -- "

"I know! And that's what I thought, but ... " He trails off, fidgets with one of the rungs on his barstool with a spat-clad foot. "I guess. However this losing thing works, it's making my head dig for some of this stuff I've forgotten too? Anyway." He sighs long and low and there's a glint of shame to his gaze that puzzles you until, "My dad took me there. I mean, it was a family charity event or something, but I told him I wanted this stuffed bear. I remember him playing so many card games just so that he could cash in for it."

You can't think of anything to say to that, so you nurse thoughts about your mom while Scratch deals out the next hand. You're watching John too: he seems more melancholic than frustrated now. Something like guilt lolls heavy in the roof of your mouth and you start to wonder why you lashed out at him as you (barely) look at your cards.

You ask for a hit and wind up going bust. Eyes trained to the ceiling, you share the first thing that comes to mind.

"My mother once took me to a private function at a casino as well. She taught me the basics of gambling by winning back the seven hundred dollars she had originally lost after her seventh martini. Plus interest, of course."

And so it goes. You and John keep trading secrets about your parents, omissions from Pesterlogs long past. From obligatory school embarrassments and sick days and trips to the beach, to the slightly less obligatory visits to Dadly Depot and BevMo. Along with the discovery that once in a while, after the latter things, both of your parents treated you to Chuck E. Cheese's. ("Ah, well. There's that explained." "What explained?" "That instant yet indelible bond they forged. Consequences of a shared wavelength, a mindset whose first instinct upon looking at young souls fresh off the pike of unwilling subjugation to grown-up obligations is to think, 'Fuck. That. Noise. We're eating terrible pizza and throwing you into a ballpit.' A match made in placating kiddy kitsch heaven if ever I saw one." "Okay, all I heard was a bunch of hugeass words speaking untruths, so pardon me for not listening to a lick of it. Chuck E. Cheese's is rad and tasty and that's all there is to it." "Dave thinks that too, you know." " ... Pssh. It's not like he isn't allowed to be right about things." "Riiight.")

But through this, even as the space between you and John warms and Scratch seems to recede, you come to think the one thing you've been trying to impugn all day: Why do you always fail when it's most important?

You can't save your mother. You can't protect John. You only succeeded in willfully angering him. Maybe he's just indulging you right now because you're not sniping at him anymore and it's the nice thing to do, under the circumstances.

Once everything's said and done here, whenever (if ever) that may be, you wouldn't be surprised if he no longer considers you a friend.

John looks down and mutters his next secret when you win again. "Okay, this. It's probably the dumbest thing ever, but I." He swallows; flexes and drums his fingers on the edge of the felt tabletop twice, three times, in a pattern you recognize by the third as chromatic scales. "Sometimes after we talk, I worry that you don't want to be friends anymore."

You,

 _what_.

"If ... I may ask what inspires this anxiety?" You're half-tempted to tack on a "Unless you deem that a tidbit fit for the next loss" but wow if the other half isn't completely through with that kind of shit. Shit which you fear is precisely what John's alluding to here.

But: "It's just that. Sometimes I say words and." He shifts in his seat, gestures vaguely. "Tell jokes?"

...

Oh.

"But you always say it's okay, so!" He barks a laugh and his smile tries for relief, but neither sits right with you. You suspect the same for him. "Like I said, it was dumb. The dumbest of things." He starts rubbing his nose and pauses. "Oh, um," he says, straightening, still smiling but there's a different quality to it, "one more thing."

He scoops up his new pair of cards, at nineteen already, and nods at you to take your turn which, oh yeah, it sure is. You fix careful eyes on him as you ask for a hit. You fail to bust.

John cheerfully asks for a hit and gets a five. Bust.

 _What are you even doing?_ is what you want to stage whisper at him, but as he looks back it dawns on you that there might be method in't. Method you're not keen on, but ... there are certain mechanics at work when it comes to losing, secret-sharing, trains of thought, and the winner's will in this game. You've gathered that. John's gathered that. And the way he's looking at you practically begs -- not for brownie points, but for sheer transparency -- that you do your worst.

You have no idea if you're holding back or not when you give in and think back a few minutes.

Either way, the sigh John heaves before getting on with it is plenty big. "My dad never got on my case for kind of. Never talking about upsetting stuff?" His voice has gone as small as it did when he uttered that "oh" earlier. "He was just ... there for me. I guess I just thought that's what everyone else expected, too."

He looks at you again. His shoulders have gone slack and he's all open wounds and defeat.

Here are the things you want to do right after this:

Move from your seat to hug him. Apologize for everything. Tell Scratch to take a long walk off a short pier and whisk yourselves away. Realize with a squirmy sort of core warmth that you'd be okay with your free hand, the one you're not using to form one half of a tumut as you both make your exit, happening to catch John's. Nor mind the least bit if, just if, he hazards to thread his fingers with yours in turn.

And here is what you tell Scratch instead:

"Hit."

He chuckles. "You've already reaped your winnings for this round, Seer. There is no need to continue."

"I said hit. Are you the dealer or not?"

He inclines his head and you can see the frown you're giving him reflected right back. A small, bristling girl in a fish bowl. He makes a sound like a thin sigh. "Very well."

You get a card, then set aside the hand you've just bust.

You take a deep breath. PROCEED?

( _Yes_.) "I admit that I tend to obscure the most important details from the people I care about." You hesitate before leaning across the table to grab John's hand. "I really only ever wanted to keep you out of harm's way. You and Dave. And Jade." He rasps a thumb over your knuckles, warm and hesitant; you tamp down a swallow. "I thought I could handle everything but ... I couldn't. And I'm sorry. I always feared you might freak out when I needed you the most."

He sucks in a breath too, the chagrin he sports hanging oddly on him. "Well, you were right. When you told me about my dad I kinda just ... wanted to talk about something else. So ... "

You raise an eyebrow. "John. When I told you about your dad, you didn't talk about anything."

"Yeah I did, we were over there by the slot machines and. Wait." Now he looks confused. "Weren't we?"

"No, we were right h ... " The words die in your mouth as something clicks. "It happened twice, didn't it?"

He blinks, then exclaims, "Yeah! This weird feeling I've had, it's because we've been here before!"

You look around the room, trying to remember, letting that insistent thing from earlier have the run of your headspace as -- yes. You nod. "I was here in the casino investigating when you arrived, as instructed."

"But _he_ wasn't here." John jabs a finger toward Scratch.

"No, which is why things went differently." You're quiet for a few seconds before admitting, "I had already incapacitated Dave, and my design for you was to do the same or steer you away. Jade included, when I could manage it."

You expect anger like before, but John just looks baffled as he asks you, "But ... why would you do that?"

It would be easy to brush it off, tell him it doesn't matter. That you barked up the wrong paradigm shift and acted accordingly ~~stupidstupidstupid~~ is just a sidenote here, right?

Then you glance from the discarded cards on the table to the boy who just fell on his sword for you and realize _you can't keep doing this_.

"Because I didn't want any of you to get hurt," you say, then continue before he can react, "With you it backfired. We got into an argument. I was frustrated and unintentionally revealed what happened to our parents. You were upset."

He rubs his arm. "I didn't want to think about it, I guess. So I asked what you were doing instead, and wanted to go with you ... "

"You were making things difficult. I had to resort to knocking you out with a ball of yarn, or at least trying ... to ... "

Oh.

 _Oh_.  
   
   
   
   
   
   
 

**[> Rose: Remember.](http://embedded.dreamwidth.net/?journalid=1590751&moduleid=33&preview=&auth_token=sessionless:1383264000:embedcontent:1590751%2633%26:19c309916ff290359a744dd5c362ea360935b617) **

   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
 

Recollection settles like dust and the silence between it (and the two of you) spans and spans.

When John finds his voice again it is nearly a whisper. "I don't remember anything after that."

You let the swallow go this time. "It was heroic, John. And I was ... distraught. Distraught enough that when Jack appeared -- "

"Wait, Jack?! But -- " He stops, hands flying to his mouth to settle there, just an instant, before realization draws like a sheet over his face. " ... Oh fuck."

You smile sadly at him. "For the record," you say, "my distress ensured I'd do no less than fight him tooth and well-honed needle before it was. Lights out."

John's arms come the rest of the way down. "That is the worst joke ever, Rose," he says miserably.

"I know." And that misery is palpable.

The room falls silent. Around you screens flash and lights blink, but the white noise you'd grown accustomed to -- the jingling of coins, the beeps of machines, even the crackling drone of lavaflows -- is gone. Scratch is gone too, you notice.

You look around the space, a distortion of a casino you once stood in, and begin to understand.

John is no longer uneasy. You can read only a sort of resigned sorrow in his blank, white eyes and the touch of downward turn to his lips. He mutters something, and upon your questioning repeats louder, "It wasn't even heroic. I couldn't save you."

"I suppose it was the sentiment that mattered," you try. "Or the immediate effect of your actions, rather than the long term." Neither take on it feels anything less than lame, even to you. But you won't pretend to understand how Sburb works. Not anymore.

A long while passes, the both of you back on your feet and in the clothes you died in and not quite meeting each other's eyes. When it aches too much for _John_ of all people to be doing this alongside you, you add, "But it's not your fault. You did what came naturally to you, while I ... " And then you resist, every part of you resonating with that sentiment. But only for a moment.

John has already heard plenty of confessions today. One more can't hurt.

"The horrorterrors told me how the dream bubbles react to one's memories, and therefore one's mental state. It seems this one is no exception."  You stop, wanting to see if he's picked up on the implications. John is just waiting for you to continue.

You do so. "It also seems that the memory we've been playing out was mine at the outset, with the later intrusion of your bubble, along with our common intersections in recollection, causing you to stumble on stage." Quite unnecessarily, you breathe. " ... How desperate do you have to be for your mind to take the form of someone you don't even trust so you can have something to blame? How _fucked up_ do you have to be to subconsciously pit yourself against a friend just so you can dismantle his psyche?"

Then you stop for good, realizing how fine a point you've put on it. You can only imagine all the things he wants to do in light of this.

Right at the bottom of that list is John pulling you into a hug, which is what actually happens. "Rose," he says, in a mumble over your shoulder, "you are gonna start hitting Dave levels of being stupid about all the wrong things at this rate."

It's a long moment before you huff out a snort against his ear. "A would-be Homeric travesty by way of Ed Wood, to be sure," you say. "But, if you'll forgive me for not quite following your point?"

"You just can't help it," he replies, and for all the reassurance meant his words sting. What does it say about you that even in death all you want to do is unravel people, strand by labored, overzealous strand?

Maybe he picks up on that, in a way, because he tugs you a little closer then adds, "And anyway, I played along. I didn't even think about what could happen. I just wanted you to stop acting so aloof for once and actually tell me stuff." He pauses, and you can feel him frown. "Also ... you already kind of apologized for stuff earlier, while I don't think I have, really? So. I'm sorry too, Rose."

"Apology accepted," you say firmly, then return his hug to seal it. The frown turns into a tiny smile in the crook of your neck.

You both stay like that for a while. You're starting to wonder, just idly, if the bubble still has some weird domain over your perception since you can feel a gentle pulse where John's heart would be if he were alive when he suddenly says, "I miss them. I mean, I still feel like I just talked to Jade and Dave a few hours ago, and in a way I guess I did, but also not? Maybe they're." He stops it there.

You think about telling him that it may have been a long time already, that maybe you've both gone through the motions of memory after memory without catching on until now. Instead you say, "I miss them too," because it's true. There's a few minutes where you try very hard not to think about what Dave and Jade were left to deal with, and whether it's a matter of time before they find you like John did, too.

John is the one to pull away first, though he keeps his fingers lightly clasped above your elbows. You're about as happy to let him keep doing that as he seems to be shy about it (which is to say: a fair bit). "So ... what do we do now?" he asks.

You sigh. "Just as the bubbles intersect, so are they wont to eventually ... part company. Or so I've heard." His face falls with understanding; you're right there with him. "All we can do is make the most of what time we have left."

You watch his gaze dip then bob up again before he punctuates the silence with ... a snort. "Suuuure, go and make that sound as final and incontrovertible or whatever as possible. Psssh."

You snort too. "I could go on about the gods having mysterious ways if you're itching for some defeatist rhetoric," you say. "Also, that was a good word."

"'In-con-tro-vertible.' You taught me that one the first time we talked." You blink. "Ha! See, Miss Flair-for-the-Dramatic, I am savvy to certain conventions too!"

"Conventions?"

"Yeah! Like, remembering semi-obscure shit at just the right moment -- a key accessory in any prankster's toolkit, you should know -- and, uhhh ... "

"And relational bookends?" you say quietly.

" ... Yeah." He starts worrying his bottom lip, but he veers the expression towards something more thoughtful. "Though I dunno, Rose. My half of this merged afterlifey bubble is feeling kind of stubborn." He grins. "You might be stuck with me for awhile!"

Something akin to "I think I would like that" sits poised on your tongue, but you hope you don't have to say it. His grin relaxes into a soft smile, you feel one creeping onto your own lips, and ... did one of the slot machines just hit a jackpot behind you?

John notices and sort of coughs out a laugh. He's gone red to the tips of his ears.

On second thought, no. You don't think you'll have to say a word on that front.

"In that case," you say instead, "why don't we blow this joint in style?"

He blinks. "What do you mean?"

With a flourish, you demonstrate. He almost falls over laughing.

The casino shifts under your feet. Carpeting phases to stone and sand, deep blue coated or run through with rivulets of pearl white, and the lights chained to the ceiling flicker and float free as fireflies. Behind John, the walls fade into mist, and the hand he holds out to you is backlit by brilliant rain. You can already see his mind spinning with plans behind his still-bright eyes.

When you take his hand and hold on tight, you're content with finding out what it means to be a part of whatever he's dreaming up.

**Author's Note:**

> Full Credits:
> 
> [Threeley](http://threeley.tumblr.com) (writing), [lightrises](http://lightrises.tumblr.com) (writing and illustration), [astrologicallyDubious](http://astrologicallydubious.tumblr.com/) (writing), [MadMegatax](http://madmegatax.tumblr.com/) (writing), [suspenderproblems](http://suspenderproblems.tumblr.com/) (writing), [jelajade](http://jelajade.tumblr.com/) (flash animation)


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